


Tame Eagle

by Pandigital



Series: 100 ways to say I love you. [9]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, I think I might burn for this, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4969069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandigital/pseuds/Pandigital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altair could kill a hundred thousand men and none it had ever bothered him before. He was an Assassin. He was The Eagle of Masyaf. He had his limits though, But for Malik, oh, for Malik he had no limit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sit down, I'll get it

He had been feverish for three days and utterly weak the next four. A shadow with burning eyes had been there since he had first woken with blurry vision. The doctors had told him to stay calm and to look down after they had helped him sit up. His left arm was gone. It was gone. He had felt his heart stop and then burst into a run, his lungs trying and failing to fill with air. The whole of the world had been in dark grey shadows, but his missing limb had been a clear vantage point.

The shadow with gold eyes and helped restrain him as he was put back to sleep. He know for a fact that he had landed a few solid punches on everyone before he had been back in the realm of sleep. When clarity had come back to Malik, the shadow was no demon sent to wait for his soul. It was close. Altair was there, sitting in the window in a simple white shirt and dark pants with no weapons, no hood and no shoes, watching him with his legs crossed at the ankle in front of him and both arms crossed tightly over his chest. Malik watched him and Altair never looked away from the hateful glare Malik knew he was giving him. Malik felt his body protest as he sat up.

He felt his wrist give out, as he held the stump of his former left arm close to his stomach. He was ready to fall onto the bed, but it never happened. Altair was there, holding him and setting him upright, making sure the pillow was behind his back and not stuck under his ass. Malik took a swing at him, knowing that it would miss. Altair didn’t move and let the punch land. He looked at Malik in the eyes and seemed to be waiting. Malik saw something in those eyes, golden and wrong and watching him as though he was prey.

The doctor came in along with Al Mualim. Malik bowed as best as he could. Altair went stiffly to his knees and then bent at the waist. Hands flat on the ground and head pressed into the floor. Malik didn’t know what to expect. Al Mualim didn’t even look down at Altair. He walked over his hands and came to stand next to Malik. He spoke softly but firmly.

“You have done us a great service. But I can not give you back your arm. Instead I gift you a slave to help you as is needed. He,” Al Mualim said as he pointed down at Altair as one did an old and beaten dog, “will be yours now.”  

Malik felt himself blink slowly, “Grand Master, I am honored, but I do not need a slave. I need to work. Even reading and writing will do.”

“So shall it be. This slave will assist you. He is yours to do with as you please.”

“I don’t…” Malik could feel himself getting woozy. His body was in so much pain. Al Mualim didn’t seem to notice or care. Or maybe it was both.

“A slave has no will, Malik. Beat him, sell him as a whore, skin him inch by inch and then make him eat the skin. Lick the floor clean. A slave is nothing and he is nothing now. You are his master, and until the day you die, it will always be so. No rest. And train your slave as you recover.”

The doctor made short work of changing the bandages and telling Malik what he was doing and how tight everything needed to be. He was given a mix of tea and milk of the poppy for the pain and then he was left in peace. Somewhat. Altair was still on the floor. Malik curled into the bed, pulling the sheet over him and keeping his wounded arm close to his chest. He closed his eyes. The memory of Kadar was still so fresh.

“Command me.”

“Shut up.”

“Tell me to do something, Malik.”

“Don’t call me, Malik. Don’t call me anything. Just...leave me be so I may rest in peace.”

Altair was still in the room, Malik could sense that. Slaves were not allowed to leave. Malik wished the darkness of sleep would take him faster. He gasped away in the middle of the night, a phantom hand clutching his heart. A warm body was next to him, breathing soft and even, but not asleep. The dim light showed only short hair. Kadar?

He rolled over and hugged the body close. He began to sob into the hair, short and spiky and clean. A soothing had pet his hair and rubbed his back.

“I’m so, so sorry, Kadar. If I had-if-” a choked out sob cut him off. His lungs burned in protest and then he began to cough. The warm body held him close as it razed him into a pile of bones. He was so tired and in so much pain. His mouth felt like cotton, “...’m soarry. Kadar”

He pushed his little brother away from him, but he followed still. Kadar always followed. He knew that some of the tea and milk of the poppy had been left. He needed the last of it and then sleep would come and the cooling corpse of his brother would no longer haunt him. The warm body was not warm. The blood had been boiling hot inside and now it cooled like glass. Malik forgot that his body was just a fragil.

He fell from the body with a small cry of pain and anger. Kadar helped him up. Put him back in bed. Malik opened his eyes as a kiss was pressed into his forehead. Gold eyes, not blue looked down at him. Malik wanted to scream. He did not want Altair as a slave. He wanted his little brother.

“Sit down, I’ll get it.” Altair said. He was handed the tea cup and Malik sent it into the wall behind Altair instead. He jumped to his feet, dizzy and on weak ankles, and pushed Altair away from him and moved to the door. He titled and stumbled like a drunk. The door was in front of him. He reached out with his left hand. The hand touched the cool metal but the hand was a ghost.

He opened it with his right and went out into the chilly nighttime air. He was in thin sleep clothing. He could feel the shadow following him. He made his way down and down and down until the small library was surrounding him. He found the chair he had always used as a boy and curled tightly into it. Altair was hovering with a blanket.

“Put that thing on me, and I’ll kill you.”

Altair did not listen and sat down facing Malik instead. Malik turned his head away and down into his chest, pulling the blanket over him. 


	2. A sick and twisted sort of affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altair had always belonged to Malik. Ever since the other man had been a child. Malik did not shine yellow, or red, or blue, or even white. No, Malik shone as golden and bright as the sun. It was how Altair has always known that they belonged together.

Altair had been taught to sleep with slitted eyes and a loose spine. Ready for anything. Except to blink them open from his short rest in front of Malik as the sun creeped across the floor to find him gone. A bubble of anger rose. Who had taken him? Then the voices of older assassins and the young yelling of boys in the yard reached his ears. No one would take Malik away.

Not here at least. Altair stood with all the grace of a killer and went to find Malik. It wasn’t hard. Malik was still weak and feverish from his wound. Altair hovered behind, gazing sweeping across the open hallway as Malik clung to the wall, the blanket acting as his robes and hood. A few of the younger boys had stopped and stared. Altair had given them a stern glare. They had turned back to their duties and Altair back to Malik.

He always turned to Malik. Even as children, Altair had sought Malik out. It was sick and twisted sort of affection. Altair remembers the day he got his eagle vision. It was the day he had seen Malik. Malik, wiping away the fat tears from a baby Kadar as he asked him not to go to learn. Malik had a firm but loving tone. I would be back for dinner.

Stay out of trouble Kadar. Then he had turned and those dark, dark eyes had looked right at him and Malik shone like polished gold. From that day, everything Altair did was to impress Malik. But nothing was ever good enough. So Altair tried harder and harder until the distance between them was vast and Malik had no love for Altair. Altair had found a woman like him, the same eyes. But she did not shine gold, only red. Nights of ill advised passions and then she was taken away from him.

He had felt a twitch of remorse, but nothing like how he had felt when he had been taken away from Malik in the temple. He had ridden back to try and raise an army, to avenge his fallen brother. Except he hadn’t fallen. He had been abused and had limped back home, Apple of Eden in hand. Altair had felt shame for leaving them behind. He still did. When he had been told that Malik was now his master, he had, at first, been confused.

Malik had always been that, but no one save him had ever known it to be a hard and unbreakable truth before. Altair had always belonged to Malik. Ever since the other man had been a child. Malik did not shine yellow, or red, or blue, or even white. No, Malik shone as golden and bright as the sun. It was how Altair has always known that they belonged together. Which was why when Malik tried to slam the door to his room shut, Altair made sure to be on the same side as Malik.

Who turned his gaze of murder to him. Altair would have killed the whole of the world if it would have made Malik look at him with any sort of love or affection. But this was not to be, not now. He had caused this, and the death of Kadar, whom Malik had taken care of since the former was a babe at the breast. Altair would never amended that wound, but he wound try. Malik slapped him, and then punched and Altair allowed it all. Malik gave a low noise of rage and then tackled him onto the bed, his one hand wrapped as tightly as a loose noose around the tan throat willing bared beneath it.

Malik was above him, sitting on his lap, while Altair had his feet firmly on the ground. He was taller than most, his half-bred nature making him taller, broader in the shoulder but lithe in the waist. Malik let his hand fall away, looking up and away from Altair. Altair reached up with his hands and drew Malik down into his neck to hide. The hot tears felt like acid against his neck. Malik was trembling in the firm hold, but Altair did not let it show that he knew. Malik moved, sitting up once more and then an odd look crossed his face.

He grabbed Altair's hands and placed them on his throat. Altair felt a flare of heat go down his spine and into his groin. Malik leaned slightly into the hands and Altair braced his body for the sudden shift of weight. Malik whispered, “Kill me. I don’t want to live like this.” The heat turned to ice. Altair pulled his hands away and flipped them on the bed, hovering over Malik.

Altair knew his face was washed in horror and fear at what Malik had just asked of him. Malik let the tears slide down his face, body limp beneath Altair. Altair shook his head, “I won’t kill you.”

“You are a slave. I am your master. I order you to kill me.”

“No.”

Malik turned his head into the sheet below him, “Then do as you please. But let me die.”

Altair felt the anger rise in him again, “Do you mean that? You will let me do as I please to you if I allow you to die?”

The answer came as a tired whisper, “Yes.” 


	3. An exposed throat is a doomed one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silly bird, if you have no wings you can not fly.

Malik had expected many things. A knife. Hands closing over his throat. A brutal beating. But Altair did none of it. No, instead he had left and had come back with a small tub and clean water. Malik had been bathed within an inch of his life, dried off as though he was made of glass.

Altair made him eat. He pinned him in his lap with strong legs and one arm wound around the waist and a firm hold on the right hand. Malik had tried to twist and turn his head but Altair was ruthless. Altair would chew the food a few times and then wait. He would spring forward and force the food into Malik's mouth and not remove his lips until Malik had chewed and eaten the food. Altair held him after that until Malik fell asleep and awoke to Altair changing his bandages.

This went on for months. Altair speaking words of praise and love, keeping him alive. No matter how much Malik hit him or screamed at him. Not even a knife to his hand had made Altair try and kill him. Truly though, Malik felt nothing save the small shiver of anger when Altair looked at him with this look. Golden eyes glassy but aware, mind in the present but also far away. Tender touches and sweet kisses to still fresh scars.

Whispers of regret. It meant nothing to Malik. Altair had been reckless, true, but Sable had struck the blow that killed Kadar. So when gossip came of him, the Templar bastard, coming to Masyaf, of how Malik felt life shiver into him from his very core. He grabbed Altair by the front of his shirt and hissed at him, “Bring me his head. Bring me the fucking heads of everyone who has spoken that foul demon! Do it and I shall forgive you; do it...and my body is yours.”

Altair flinched but only so much. He shook his head and placed gentle hands on the the one holding him, “I don’t want-”

“Liar.” Malik said and kissed him like a fist to the mouth. Blood and teeth and lust. He pulled away and gave Altair's lower lip and slow lick, moving his lower body until he could wrap it around the slim waist of once great assassin. He could feel the want pushing against him. Altair held him aloft, hands under his ass. Malik whispered into his ear, “Kill him and all who have helped him, followed, killed for him. Do this for me Altair, and I will give you what is left me; body and soul.”

“And if I desire your heart?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Promise we the heart as well, and I will kill the world for you.”

“It is yours.”

Altair was like an animal, his eyes burning as he left. Altair could kill a hundred thousand men and none it had ever bothered him before. He was an Assassin. He was The Eagle of Masyaf. He had his limits though, But for Malik, oh, for Malik he had no limit. He was gone for weeks and weeks.

Almost a year went by before he came back, with a large chest. And their master at his feet. And oh how the man bragged, even with the shiny blade at his throat and chest of skulls of his former comrades near him. Malik looked at Altair and just nodded his head. As their once great Grand Master fell dead to the ground Malik pulled his loose robe from his thin body and opened his legs. Altair fucked him as though he had been born to do it.

When the sun rose again in the morning, Altair took the bloody robes and put them on, and then turned back to Malik who reached for his robe. Altair pushed his hand gently into his lap and handed it him with a smirk, “Sit down. I’ll get it for you.”

“What else will you get me?”

“Anything. Just say the word?”

“Oh? Anything? What am I to you, now, Altair?”

“Everything.”

Malik pulled him into a bruising kiss, “Prove it.”

No one saw the new Grand Master for a week. When they did, he was just as cold as he had ever been. And beside him was a figure dressed in white and decorated in love bites. No one said anything. Not when those golden eyes dared them to. A chest and a rotting body where proof of what would happen to any man foolish enough to cross the new Grand Masters of their Order. 


End file.
